Judgment and Repentance
by Anneklok
Summary: The Red Cell team takes on a kidnapping case affecting one of their own. When family is involved common sense and protocol tend to go out the window. It will take the team working together to solve the case and keep Prophet from losing control. Prophet/OC
1. Chapter 1

The day had been long starting at an hour early in the morning and filled with the sickness of the human condition. To come home meant a reprieve if only for a few hours. To work in his home city made the transition to rest and clearheaded more difficult for Sims. He had trained his mind to treat a bland hotel room as a refuge. He had trained his mind to think of home as the same, but rarely did he come home unless the team had finished a case. Even when the case didn't end well or as well as he had hoped it was still finished. On this day he'd go home and the next morning wake up in his own bed to the same problem he'd fallen asleep with.

Mick had suggested they get a hotel room just for this reason. He thought about giving it a try. The nagging something in his belly had dissuaded him. He only had a few hours to get some rest and come back refreshed; nevertheless he decided to call home on drive. The familiarity of checking on milk, bread and cereal quantities meant a sliver of control of something in the world.

"Hey, pick up. I'm on my way. We get the night at home and I wanted to know if we needed anything from the store."

He paused thinking that usually the phone got picked up a little earlier in his rambling when he'd call. Ava, his ex-wife, and he kept a landline. The rest of the team, particularly Beth, found this ridiculous. They screened their calls using an answering machine - something else foreign and odd to the younger generation he worked with. Even Coop, despite his age, had let his answering machine and landline go for the singularity of cell service.

"Okay, guess you aren't there. Call me,"

He hung up and dropped his phone into the cup holder for safe keeping. He swallowed and tried to focus all his attention to the road in front of him. He reached for his phone and switched his eyes to the screen, then the road, back and forth. It took only seconds. He called her cell phone.

A light standard turned yellow. 'Prophet' shifted his foot to the brake and started to apply even pressure. The light switched to red and he slowed to a stop in ample time.

Her phone went to voicemail. He ended the call. Again he dropped the phone into the cup holder and then reached for the radio dial. He pressed the first preset button for the radio, the second, the third, and finally all the way to the sixth and repeated. Commercials or a song he had no desire to listen to were all that seemed to be on air while he waited the few more seconds of the red light.

He thought about the case. His stomach started to sour. He tried to think about milk, bread and eggs. He swallowed again and found dry mouth setting in. The light turned green and he hit the gas. He suddenly needed to be home; to see her car parked in its' usual space and to pull in alongside. He needed to see a light on, waiting for him. He needed to unlock the front door and hear low music and find her in the bathtub or just coming out of the shower – reasons she couldn't or wouldn't pick up either of the two ringing phones.

"Fuck," he cursed at his paranoia, "Fuck. Just call me back."

The store he planned to stop at was a blur through the right window. He eased to make a stop at the red octagon sign. He rolled through it. A patrol cop would understand if he got pulled over and then had to explain. He accelerated and switched to the left lane. He still had to make a left onto a one way street and then pull into the parking garage specifically made for the tenants of their loft building.

About two hundred yards ahead the light standard controlling his upcoming left turn shifted from green to yellow. Sims had to hit the brakes when the yellow changed to red; he thought he had a few more seconds to make it, but the light had no patience for him. Then the sound of tinkling bells came, much like wind chimes.

"_What the hell kind of ringtone is that?" _Mick had asked the first time he heard Prophet's phone ring.

Sims took the phone from the cup holder, checked the screen to see who was calling, and swiped the screen to answer.

"Hey,"

"Hey, sorry I missed the call. My phone got left on silent." Ava replied.

He breathed out once he realized he'd kept his breath held since speaking.

"I figured something like that. Are you at home?"

The light switched green and after making sure there was no oncoming traffic, he made his turn.

"Almost,"

He smiled and relaxed his shoulders, sunk back a little into the car's seat and switched on the blinker to turn into the parking garage.

"I'm pulling into the garage. I was going to stop on the way if we needed anything at the store."

"I don't think we do. I know one thing I need right now,"

"What's that?"

"I need you,"

His lips parted and he was about to reply, but before that he heard the sniffling and the tremble. He pulled into the space marked with an abbreviation. Other tenants had their initials or a last name. He went with something completely arbitrary, but would suffice so no one would take the spot by mistake. He'd done it on purpose for them both.

"What happened?"

"This guy at work," she sighed, voice now heavy and playing tricks with his mind so that he could visualize a trickle of tears though no sound could back this theory up.

"I'm waiting for you to pull up." He said, pushing the gear shift into park and twisting the keys to kill the idle engine.

"He scared the shit out of me,"

"What did he do? Is this a patient?"

She groaned and he overheard the clicking of a turn signal echoing among the road noise reverberating in the car.

"No, it's not a patient. It's this prick that they hired. He's a fucking psycho," she spat disgustedly. "I'm probably going to go to hell for saying that, but oh well,"

"Tell me,"

"I'm pulling in to the garage right now."

"Alright,"

He unhooked his seatbelt, opened the car door, and slipped out. He shut the door, phone to his ear listening to her shaky quick breaths, and popped the trunk with the remote on his keys. He took out his black satchel that contained laptop and case files. He had to take it inside with him at night. So he slid the strap across his chest and shut the trunk. He stood there to wait for her to pull up and park.

"What's this guy's problem?"

"He's a chaplain. They hired him for, you know," she explained, cloaking the explanation of terminal patients with an ambiguous euphemism.

"His name is Daniel. I don't know. He's kind of just off. Tonight was awful. He got me when I wasn't paying attention,"

Her headlights came into view and her car gracefully rolled forward on the polished cement that never felt the abuse of weather safe within the structure of the garage. His pulse seemed to slow just seeing her through the windshield, one hand on the steering wheel and the other clutching the phone. He normally would have hung up, but he held on to the phone and the sound of her voice.

"What do you mean by 'got you'?"

"I mean, got to me. We got into it verbally. I'm so stupid. I can't believe this is bothering me."

"Don't blame yourself. Whatever he did, it wasn't your fault."

The car swung into the space beside him and he took the phone from his ear. He walked from his trunk to hers and around to the driver's side door. He looked down at the phone and saw the connection end as she'd hung up. When he looked in her window he saw she was tossing her phone into her purse. She then took her keys from the steering column, killing the engine.

Before she could reach for the lever herself, he opened her door and held it open for her. She smiled half heartedly and stepped out, holding her purse in one hand, keys in the other and stepped closer. Prophet put both arms around her and she wrapped both around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. She let out a long held breath and he stroked one palm over the back of her head to keep from tangling his fingers in the silky curls.

"I got ya."

He'd all but forgotten the stress from his day's objective – find the killer targeting middle aged white females from this area. Now, he had a mind teeming and swirling with all the possibilities of what some other man had done or said to incite this reaction from his ex-wife, well, his once ex-wife, or legally divorced partner. They'd made a decision to divorce after he'd been arrested and charged with murder, to protect her financially and professionally. Before the trial had ended it had been finalized and the state jumped at the chance to put her on the stand. After threats of being put in contempt of court, she had no choice but to testify that she couldn't account for his whereabouts on the night of the murder.

"Shit, you have probably had the worst day and here I am…" she muttered trailing off.

"Your foul nurses' mouth is just what I needed to forget my day." He replied, trying to put her at ease.

She nervously smiled, "Let's go inside. This garage still creeps me out at night."

"Agreed."

She was the first to pull back and release him from the embrace. He eased back and let one hand drift over her shoulder, down her forearm to her hand. She couldn't hold back the spread of a short-lived smile, weaving her fingers with his. His other hand reflexively touched his service weapon, a 9mm semiautomatic pistol. Just having it there, the heavy weight throwing off his gait throwing at the beginning was a comfort. In the same way, his other hand fingers entwined with hers was also a comfort.

They walked the short distance to the garage foot entrance and along the footpath to the building. She still had her keys out, a habit, one that he liked. She knew to stab for the eyes with her keys if someone approached her.

"I need a glass of wine, stat," she said, putting the entrance key in the lock.

He let go of her hand so she could twist the knob while turning her key.

"Do you want it in CCs or just eyeball it." He joked, letting his eyes sweep over the area, a habit that would never leave him.

They stepped inside and he shut the front door, giving it a pull to test that it had locked behind them. From the entrance they walked to the elevator. She already had her other key ready.

"Fill it up. I've had it. Three days off is going to do me good,"

"Coop gave me six hours."

"Remind me why I complain about my hours to you?" she grinned, more at ease and falling into the familiarity of coming home.

"I'm sure someday you'll win," he retorted with an adorable smile to follow.

They stepped in to the elevator and Prophet pressed the number for their floor. The floor had two lofts and theirs was the door closest to the elevator.

"So, a whole six hours instead of four?"

"We hit a brick wall. It's not making sense and burning midnight oil last night didn't exactly help. So, 6 hours instead of 4. Maybe that extra precious sleep will give us an edge."

"Any leads?"

"You know I can't say."

She rolled her eyes, "Any hope is what I'm asking?"

"Close, but no cigar." He sighed, shoving hands in his pockets.

She snorted a quick breath and adjusted her purse strap on the crook of her arm. He changed the subject back to her problem at work.

"So you've got the chaplain from hell?"

She reached for his elbow and slipped her arm around his, stepping in close. A subtle sign she needed security even though it rung obvious in his mind. The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. She started to loosen her grip as they stepped forward out of the wide entry into the hallway.

"I screwed up," she remarked, her tone serious once more.

"How so?"

She took the keys and slid them into the door lock.

"Shit where I ate spiritually, so to speak,"

Sims couldn't help but shake his head with a grin. "You, woman, have a way with words."

Ava simply sighed, released his arm and swung open the door. They crossed the threshold and she spared no time putting toe to heel, kicking off her shoes on the entry rug. She stalked forward in socks dropping her purse on the coffee table and all but dropping onto their couch. The chocolate colored sectional set had a three seat couch, with one of the seats concealing a foot rest and would recline. The second half boasted a love seat. He locked up behind her, door handle, lock and deadbolt before ducking his head to pull off the satchel. He set it alongside the couch and then sat down beside her to unlace his boots.

"So," he began, leaving the word hanging in the air to bait her.

"So, they hired this jerk about a month ago. I liked him right off. He really seemed to care, which I guess a minister is supposed to do. So he's making rounds and I'm making my rounds."

Sims pulled off the first boot, setting it off to the side and started on the second, glancing up at her as she spoke. She didn't look at him, just trained her eyes to the ceiling. He felt a pinch of guilt for assessing her that way. He hated that his mind calculated that she was not lying based on her gaze off into the distance like someone watching the past like a movie. He hated that it took him at least a day to stop being on the job. He hated even more that it would be pointless to even try to turn it off for a measly 6 hour break.

"He had a sense of humor. The other chaplains had pretty proper senses of humor, but I thought it was a nice change to have someone who could crack jokes with the nurses and didn't give us the tsk tsk for sarcasm."

Prophet stood up, now in socks as well. He strolled across the length of the wood floor into the kitchen, listening as she explained. The box of wine she kept on hand for relaxing after work had just been opened within the past few days. He pulled it from the ice box and set it on the counter and reached from the hanging rack for one of the stemmed glasses. He poured her a glass of table red.

"We had lunch a few times, sometimes just me and him, but mostly me, him and Sherry or Meg. Just talked about life and he'd do his duty sharing the faith. We had some good talks. Apparently, he thought I should make an appearance at his church some night when I didn't have a shift. I tried to bow out saying I usually got stuck with Sundays, but apparently they have really amazing services on Wednesdays. He's just one of many pastors there,"

"Where's there?" Prophet asked, returning to her and handing her the glass of wine.

He took a seat on the couch, angling so he could face her. He tried to shake off the stiffness and feign relaxed, but he ended up with his elbows on his knees, one fist balled up and the other hand cupping it so he could squeeze it like a stress ball as she talked. She sat up from her full slouch and tilted her head back to take a long sip of the wine before quoting a church name he'd never heard.

"Anyway," she sniffed, twirling the stem of the glass in her fingers, focusing now on it as she spoke, "Daniel started really evangelizing some of the patients. I love being manager because I get to handle these little moments. Sherry comes to me and says she overheard him doing some counseling. She said he told a fifteen year old boy who had just come out of a car crash, lost his father, damn near lost his leg, and has a mother who lives in bumfuck Iowa coming to get him meaning that he's probably going to have to pull up and go live with her - that this is all God's plan and being mad at God is not going to change any of it. That it's wrong to doubt the Lord and his plan,"

"Wait?"

"Yeah, she said this kid just laid there taking it in and next thing Daniel is telling him that if it weren't for God he wouldn't be alive and he needs to thank God for everything, right there."

"She stepped in the room and made up some sort of procedure and asked Daniel to leave. She thinks he got wise because he asked if there was any way he could have 5 more minutes to pray with the kid and then he'd turn him over. She gave the kid one look and pointed him to the door."

"Great." He said with a final squeeze to his balled up fist flexing open both hands, "Just what the world needs, another dictator with a cross."

"I can't wait until the kid's mother arrives. It's going to be a shit storm, but thank God I'm off. I had Sherry write it up for me. I took it as a complaint, but I had to go follow up on it before I filed. I thought maybe Sherry got it out of context. I didn't think this guy could truly say that to this poor kid. He's a sweet kid, wholesome, religious and if he couldn't see his mom he thought the next best thing would be a preacher."

"Then the guy basically tells him to feel guilt for his grief process." Prophet summed up.

"I get the write up and when I finally have a chance I go see Daniel. I didn't come at him at all. I knock on his door and ask him if I can talk to him in private about something work related. So he says sure and I go in the little cubby the chaplain gets for an office, it's right off the chapel. I sit down and I explain that there had been a complaint about his conduct with a patient and before I can finish he gets all defensive. So I knew right then Sherry had it right. If it had been benign he wouldn't have gotten worked up."

She took another sip of the wine and leaned her head all the way back against the cushioning of the couch. She sat for a moment in silence, eyes shut. Sims edged closer and put his hand out to cover her hand free hand.

"He tells me that I don't know what the circumstances were and that my nurse kicked him out of the room before he could properly finish up "relationship processing" with the kid and then he said the kid called to have him come back and my nurses were all blocking him from getting back into the room. He goes on about how he's about to call my supervisor because I'm coming down here without even getting his side of the story.

"Already, I am really concerned, because he's just morphed into this total unprofessional and second he's using this terminology that I have never in my life heard."

"Cult behavior," he surmised, as if still in the war room with the team picking apart the evidence. Ava didn't take exception, nodding in agreement.

"I was sitting at his desk across from him and I just took a breath and calmly tried to explain that some of his advice had upset the patient and there had been concern about the patient's needs because he is so young. The child is in our care until his mother arrives from Iowa and in order to do our jobs and keep him comfortable and recovering from his injuries the staff member consulted with his physician about adequate rest needs and that his visitors are limited to family only.

"He comes off at this point about how family isn't just blood and that the kid is a Christian and needs his Christian family. He won't come see him if the kid doesn't want him there, but we have no right to block this kid from accessing Christian counsel during his greatest time of need."

"And this guy is still employed as of you punching out?" Prophet asked incredulously.

"Yeah," she spat, lifting the wine glass and taking a healthy slug, reducing the volume by a quarter.

"I get up and am like – look, I've told you that there has been a complaint. I just need you to write up your side of this. I'm going to go ahead and send this up the line because I don't think you and I are going to be able to reach an agreement on what occurred and I can see that I've upset you."

She groaned and pulled her hand away to rub her eyes and he saw her lower lip shake. He took the wine glass from her hand, set it on the coffee table, and leaned forward wrapping one arm around her shoulders and using the other to nudge her toward him. She gave no fight and still covering her face with one hand, put her other against his chest, rested her cheek on his shoulder and began to weep. He knew better than to push her any farther so he let her cry for the minute or two that she needed.

"His voice had kind of risen when he was explaining himself. He got pretty excited during his little defense speech. But when I said that, he got eerily calm and was really short. He said to me 'Upset, Ava? I'm not upset. You're the one that's blowing this out of proportion." And I just stood there completely like – what the hell did I just walk into."

"That's manipulation. He turned the feeling emotion back on you. You said he was upset. He had to deny it because it doesn't fit his façade to be upset. A minister doesn't get upset. So, he put the label on you to discredit you and keep his ego intact."

"It gets weirder." She mumbled, pulling her hand from her eyes to wipe her cheeks, "I am staring at him and I'm like, oh hell no. I said to him something like "Look, whatever. I can go over the statement with you now or I can send it up. It's your choice."

"He starts back peddling, immediately and says how he is willing to discuss it. He is just very concerned for the boy and wants to help him as much as possible and that I of all people should know how very much the boy needs a spiritual presence to guide him.

"I tell him that this is nothing to do with me and my personal beliefs. This is about telling an impressionable traumatized teenager some things that upset him and – well, later the kid did complain, but he hadn't yet. So all I could say was that it had concerned staff to hear what he said, but if it was taken out of context then now would be the time to explain that so that it goes on record."

"Let me guess, he has a good reason for everything?" Jonathan asked.

"Of course he does. He gives me a slightly different version of what he said. Then says that he isn't mad at Sherry and he may have thought the same thing she did if he came from her background. So I try to leave it alone and he goes into how Sherry has been disobedient a number of times and that having had lunch with her and listened to her comments he is aware she is an atheist and he thinks this is why this complaint is happening.

"I ask him if he refused to vacate the room when Sherry asked him to do so for the medical procedure and ignored his explanation about Sherry's personal life affecting her judgment at work. He says that she was pretty rude about telling him to get out and he just asked, because he didn't understand that what she had to do couldn't wait. He tried to say that it had been offhanded and he'd left after she asked and not the other way around."

"So, after the whole thing is kind of now done and I have a he-said, she-said on my hands. I'm like, okay, please write this up as an incident report and forward it along to legal and cc me. And he is just staring at me with this intense look and I look behind me, because it really – I don't know. I just don't know how to even describe this. Then he blinked and was back to all smiles and told me he would do that, got up from his chair, shook my hand and smiled and thanked me for coming to see him."

Sims remained silent. Ava pulled back and reached for the wine glass on the coffee table. He lowered one arm so she could learn forward far enough to reach, but kept his other arm tight around her. He pulled her back against him. She shifted so that she could lean her side against him and sip her wine.

"And he's an ordained minister?" He finally said.

"Apparently,"

"At a real church,"

"Apparently,"

"Wow, and he's on the loose."

She nodded and took the final sip of the glass.

"Another?" he questioned and received an affirmative murmur. He took the glass from her hand and gently pushed her forward so he could get up. He walked into the kitchen on autopilot and filled her glass, stuffing the wine box back into the fridge, determined not to let her go for a third no matter how much her nerves needed settling.

"What do you think?" she questioned as he handed her the glass before lowering down to the couch and slipping in behind her.

"I think he sounds pretty messed up. I don't even know how he-" Prophet paused, "Don't tell him anything else about you, okay."

"Okay," she readily agreed, taking a first sip of the second glass and making a pronounced 'ah' after.

"I'm serious. Even the smallest detail is something he can latch on to and use later whether it be verbally sparring or," he hesitated, "or whatever."

"It really got to me. I had no idea he'd act like that. We'd been working together a month, granted not daily or too close – not like I work with the other nurses. It just shocked me. I couldn't get it out of my mind the last two hours of my shift. I kept checking my back when I clocked out and went to my car. I almost asked the security guard to walk me."

"Next time, you even think about it – go with it. Instincts don't lie and you have especially good instincts."

She gave a half smile. "My instincts told me to take the name plate on his desk and bash his head in, but I held back."

Prophet said nothing.

"Bad joke," She added, lifting her glass. "Worst joke probably."

"I regret it every day."

"I know, I know. I should know better than to even joke about it."

He half heartedly shrugged and wound his arms around her, just beneath her ribcage.

"It's something that makes a whole lot of sense though. There are times I wish ethics didn't exist or remorse, but they do and since they do and I have them both, well here we are: court costs, shame, a marriage, six years of my life that I'll never get back and a full pardon later."

"I waited. I tried not to. I tried everything, but in the end, I waited." She said softly.

"I know." He said, even softer.

The sound of a thunder crack and a guitar riff broke the placid mood. Without hesitation, she broke from his grip and leaned at an odd angle, reaching around him, grabbing her purse.  
"Hospital ringtone," she explained quickly, dropping the purse into her lap and digging in for her phone.

While still holding the wine glass she used to her pinky to swipe the screen and answered the phone call.  
"Yellow?" she chirped, hiding the serious tone that she'd been speaking in for nearly an hour since they'd been home.

Prophet saw her back muscles tense through her scrubs. Her posture changed completely. She took a sip from her wine glass and swallowed the bitter liquid back.

"Look, I don't want to talk about it. See you when I'm back on, okay."

She turned looking over her shoulder at Prophet with a harried expression on her face.

"Well, that's fine for you. I am off the clock so right now I just –"

She paused and listened. Sims put his hand out for the phone.

"Honestly, I accept your apology. I appreciate that you understand how things got misconstrued and that you are sorry for how you –"

There was another pause and she removed the phone from her ear, hitting the red rectangle on the screen that clearly said END. She set the phone onto the coffee table and took a sip of wine before putting the glass down, too.

"Him?" Prophet asked, humorless.

"Yeah," she said quickly, her eyes darting away.

"Don't," he said in response to her body language, softening his still serious tone, "I'm not mad at you for answering; you thought it was work."

She scratched her cheek and then lowered her hands to her lap, folding them. Another thunderclap followed by the opening notes of a guitar. She glanced over at the phone. Prophet looked over her shoulder at the lit up screen.

"Let it go to voicemail." He told her.

She turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck and hiding her face in the crook. He automatically returned the hug and pulled her off the couch onto his lap. She felt like a child hiding from a storm, a monster, or the threat of a bad grade. The ringtone eventually ceased. They sat in silence. A solitary beep came from the phone and a visual notification on the screen for the voicemail that had been left.

"Save the voicemail." He said.

"I will," she whispered back.

"Tomorrow, if he contacts you again, text me; I'll be in the field, but I want to know if he's harassing you."

"I'm sure it's not like that," she reasoned. "I just got tired of his platitudes and hung up. He probably thinks the call dropped."

"Yeah," he blandly agreed.

The thunderclap sounded again. Prophet let go of her with his right arm and reached for the phone, grabbing it before she could remove her arm and thwart him. He swiped the screen and put the phone up to his ear.

"Hello,"

"Hi, this is Pastor Shue."

"Great. This is Special Agent Sims."

"Who?"

"Her husband," Prophet gave only half a second for a pause, "Ava isn't going to take your calls at home. I'd suggest sending her an email if you need to communicate about job related matters. She can attend to it during business hours."

"But, you-"

"No, there are no buts. Don't call her again. The conversation is finished. There is nothing else to say to her."

He hung up the phone and put it on the table, a wide smile spread across his lips. She looked at him in shock, her face paled in comparison to moments before.

"Sorry," he said through his smile, "I used 'cop voice'. I didn't mean to scare you,"

She shook her head. "I love cop voice. I'm just not looking forward to what he's going to do after that. I'm so going to hear about it later."

"You hear anything about it later in any form or fashion and I can pay him a visit. I'm sure a one-on-one chat would give him something to think about other than harassing you and making your life hell."

"Hah. He's going to be pissed that you just dominated him."

"No, he's going to stand down. He has no authority with the hospital board of directors. He has no authority with the nursing staff. You have authority with both. Regardless of what he thought he could pull in his office, on his territory, with you in a closed room alone with no possible witnesses, he knows the game's changed now. Feds and religious nuts have historically not done too well together, mostly on the side of the religious nuts. He's probably pissing himself on his knees praying there's not going to be another Waco at his church or compound, whatever." The venom in Prophet's voice was undeniable.

"Guess I got lucky I have the possessive fed for a _husband_."

"Hey, boyfriend sounds less macho, ex-husband is too confusing, and besides, common law counts."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you ever going to remake an honest woman out of me?"

"If we could ever get off enough vacation at the same time, but that would require an honest to God miracle."

"I wasn't serious or anything." She excused, flustered and starting to blush.

"Good, I wasn't asking," he goaded putting his right arm back around her and stroking the small of her back.

She ran her hands from his shoulders to his neck, cupping his chin and leaned down. She touched her lips to his, hesitating before nipping at his bottom lip.

"You still have five hours. I know you probably need to sleep and I'm worn out."

"Are you asking for a rain check?"

She brought her lips back to his, kissing slowly. She moved his lips apart with hers and deepened the kiss.

"More like a quickie," she answered.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been 14 hours since Prophet had taken even a quick nap, 24 since he'd gotten a steady 4 hours of sleep, and 2 days since he'd been home. The texts and short phone calls had carried him through, but it would be even better to see a friendly face. He could make no pretenses, after the stint in lock up, he literally needed to be around people. Once he'd gotten out and regained the human connection, more than just watching a fellow inmates' back, it became necessary. Having a relationship that weathered that storm helped life make a little more sense at the end of a long case.

The unsub that the team had been after had been caught on a college campus. The entire George Washington University campus had to be put on lockdown. It had been a fast capture thankfully and not a long standoff. Even so, it had been a grueling experience. Cooper and Prophet had the takedown. They'd positioned Mick on a roof for tactical sniper support. That had left Gina and Beth securing the exits. Coop had been able to deescalate the situation, Prophet secured the unsub in cuffs and they had escorted him out together.

The team rode together to the office and poured out of the black team vehicle and into the gym where they rented their office space. To Prophet the feeling of leaving his laptop and files and picking up his go-bag of dirty clothes could not be described in words. It felt like weightlessness and a pat on the shoulder, but so much more. He'd have to come in the following day to debrief and collaborate on the written report, write individual statements, and of course contribute to logging the per-diem, filing receipts and mileage reports – his personal favorite.

"Going home straight away?" Mick asked him, stepping up to the side of Prophet's desk, coat over his arm and ready to leave.

"Yeah, looks that way. I just want a shower and a beer, in that order."

"You do smell quite ripe now that you mention it," Mick agreed with a wry smile.

"Thanks, man. You should look into some cologne if you're thinking about going out,"

"Me? No." Mick lied, with an over exaggerated flick of his wrist, "You know I'm a homebody,"

"You want to come over, Mick?" Prophet offered, grinning at his partner, who liked to take the roundabout way of inviting himself over.

"Oh, well since you're offering," he retorted promptly, grin spreading into a wide toothy smile "It's been ages since I've seen the misses,"

"God, get a room," Gina teased, giving them both playful swats with a manila folder as she swished by on the way to Beth's desk. "He's using you for your beer,"

"And probably my shower," Prophet added, slinging the strap of his go-bag over his shoulder.

"COULD I?" Mick guffawed, enjoying the jovial mood.

Gina and Cooper both laughed. Cooper pulled out his chair and sunk into the cushioning of the seat.

"Anyone else up for beers? Apparently, my place is the new corner bar," Prophet offered taking his keys from his pocket.

"I'm good. Going to get a jump on the paperwork so that I can maybe avoid this place tomorrow," Beth answered without hesitation, pulling out her chair and taking a seat.

"I'm with Beth," Coop answered unzipping his satchel and reaching inside to remove his notes and files from the case.

"I would," Gina said, turning to face them, slipping her olive jacket over her arm, "But, I've actually got plans for tonight,"

"Oo," Mick hooted, "Hope it's a fancy date,"

"Oh it is. Last show at the cinema starts in an hour. We're all kinds of fancy," She said striding past them to the door. "Hot dogs, popcorn and soda,"

"Hope it's a chick flick," Mick called out, as she waved behind her.

"Try cartoon. Are you kidding me?" they heard before the door shut behind her.

Prophet and Rawson made a final bid and said goodnight to Coop and Beth who had chosen to stalemate again to see who would be the last at the office. Mick locked up behind him and Prophet strolled to the chain linked parking area where they could park their vehicles for a few days without too much worry of a break-in while on a case. The gate was still rolling fully open when Gina pulled out from the parking lot through the growing opening. She waved as she passed them.

"I'll give you a head start, old man. I'm going to stop on the way."

"Yeah?"

"Let you prepare for my triumphant arrival, and I want to grab some ale."

"Cocky of ya assuming I keep shitty beer on hand,"

"It's not assuming if I profiled it," Mick countered, following Prophet through the open gate to the parking area, which was already starting to close.

"See you there, man." Prophet shook his head, and pulled open his driver's side door, throwing his bag across into the passenger seat.

"Suffice to say, I've been told that I'm high maintenance," Rawson called out stepping up to his car.

"No truth to it though, right?" Prophet retorted.

"I never noticed it,"

Prophet smiled and shut his car door watching Mick echo the look with a cheeky grin before also getting in his vehicle. He took out his cell phone, knowing it would be best to give a heads up far in advance. He dialed the number and put the phone to his ear, holding with his shoulder and shifted out of park.

"Please tell me you finally get to come home?" were the first words out of her mouth when she answered her cell phone.

He chuckled, "Yeah, finally done. Sure you saw it on the news,"

"Figured that you had something to do with that little standoff,"

Sims reached into his jacket pocket, feeling the shapes of various keys and two remotes on his keychain, before pressing the button for the gate.

"Wasn't even a standoff; he went pretty peacefully," he corrected.

He sat waiting for the automated gate to open wide enough so that he could pull out into the street. Mick had pulled up behind him.

"As long as you didn't get maced again,"

"Wow," he laughed, "I was wondering if that had finally died. Obviously not,"

"I'm just teasing. It was nice having you drop in to see me at work," he could hear the smile in her voice.

"I'm sure it was. When I could finally open my eyes I really thought you were going to hit me,"

"Thought about slapping you for scaring me like that, but what's the point. You'd already been maced. A slap would have just been anticlimactic,"

Prophet pulled forward turning left onto the street. He had virtually no traffic to compete with as rush hour had come and gone, but during the weeknight the bar traffic didn't really pick up until between ten and midnight.

"Yeah, speaking of anticlimactic endings and now that you mention it slaps – Mick's coming by."

"Should I get my hopes up for a threesome or just play it cool?" she snickered.

"Oh god," he groaned, "Why did you go there?"

"I've been off two days; the lack of vomit in my life is unnatural,"

"You always know just the right things to say,"

"Seriously, if he's coming by I should probably make something. I don't know, pull some hot wings from the freezer or make some fish and chips."

"You always joke about the fish and chips, yet you never make good on it,"

"One day, when I'm feeling extra energetic I'll do it,"

"And how come when it's Mick on the way home with me you'll pull something good out of the freezer. When it's just me coming home I get reheated leftovers,"

"Don't be jealous. Mick's just the type that inspires pulling something out of the freezer. You're the type that inspires a very private desert menu,"

He had to laugh. "While obviously flattered, that's pretty cliché,"

"I've got one more day off and I've spent the last two by myself vegging or running errands. We can't all be special agents who just think all day."

"Touché, touché," he said through a smirk, "You want anything at the store. I can call your dream man and have him pick it up since he's stopping to get beer on the way,"

"You're my dream man." She countered, "And, no, we don't need anything at the store. Just get home."

"I'm ten minutes out." He assured her.

"Then, see you in ten minutes,"

"Love you,"

"Love you, too."

She hung up first and he set the phone in the cup holder. He reached for the radio dial and turned on a station. He listened for a few seconds before yawning. He somewhat regretted inviting Mick over. He knew Mick needed to unwind and be around friends, but Prophet also wanted a nap or 12 hours of straight sleep after the beer that came after the shower. Mick could crash on the couch, it had happened more than once, but he had yet to see how well the Welshman entertained himself supposing Prophet were to fall asleep ahead of him.

Prophet's eyes darted from the road back and forth while he pressed through all the preset buttons on the car radio. One rock station was having a college indie night and he could definitely do without that. He hit blocks of commercials. He couldn't get into the spirit of the oldies on this particular occasion. If he turned on the smooth jazz he'd probably fall asleep and veer off the road while driving. He just wanted ten minutes of solid rock to get him home safely. The universe, however, felt this was too much to ask. He left the radio on the commercial block hoping it would end soon and return to hard rock and focused completely on the road.

Far ahead he could make out taillights of another vehicle and in the night it took several seconds to become clear that he was approaching a stationary vehicle. He took his foot off the gas and coasted squinting as he approached. He could now tell that the car had been pulled over to the shoulder. The back break lights began to flash in a rhythm indicating the hazard light button had been pushed. He sighed and reached for the radio's volume dial and turned down the din of commercial idiocy.

He drove past the car slower than he normally would have gone down the street. He couldn't see the driver of the car distinctly with the windows up and no lights on inside the cab. He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the driver's door open and the driver step out, shutting the door behind. He could tell from the outfit and hairstyle that the female driver had to be a teenager or college girl. He groaned watching her lean back against the bumper and the glow of what he could only guess was a phone or iPod in her hand bathed her face in cool light.

"Great," he muttered to himself, now slowing down and pulling off to the shoulder.

He glanced up to the rearview and saw the girl standing in a too short skirt denoted by the amount of leg exposed before reaching ridiculous slouchy knee high boots. She had bangles on both wrists and wore a blouse made of loud yellow fabric. Now he knew she had to be a teenager. He watched her go through the sweeping motion of her hands as she adjusted ear bud headphones to her ears. Prophet snorted and shook his head. He put the car into park and turned off the ignition. He could easily imagine this girl ending up the newspaper headline in a day or so when she didn't return home and never showed up at school and her car with flat tire was found abandoned. His stomach lurched and he knew he couldn't continue home in good conscience with this girl, innocent and naïve, standing outside her car with the hazard lights on. It might as well have been a homing beacon for all kinds of predators.

Prophet stepped out of the car and withdrew his badge. He shut the car door behind him, making sure it locked and started toward the girl. She appeared to now be typing on her touch screen phone and he could see the wire from the headphones now trailing from the device to her ears. _Perfect_ he thought, sarcasm biting his thoughts. _What are you going to rely on, your sense of smell or taste to let you know when some freak is coming to get you? Eyes and ears are just sooo last week,_

"Hey," he called out as he approached, holding up his badge hoping it would catch light from the lights from the car.

She didn't look up, immediately. Instead her fingertips tapped and then she glanced up at him. She straightened seeing the badge he held up as he walked toward her. She yanked the headphones from her ears and balled them up in her hand with her phone. She lowered it guiltily to her side and stepped from the car door, turning to face him.

"I'm Agent Sims," he said, "Don't be afraid, I'm with the FBI. Are you having some car trouble?"

She visibly swallowed, rattled by the intrusion and the revelation he was not just a cop, but the big cheese of all cops.

"Yeah, my tire totally blew out. I called triple A. They're coming to fix it."

He lowered his hand with the badge as he closed the space between them and offered it out to her to look over. She glanced down at it, giving it a cursory once over and then looked back up at him.

"I stopped because I saw you standing outside your car." He told her, putting his badge back into his pocket. "That's not exactly safe,"

"Yeah, I couldn't really see from inside the cars that were coming."

"You've got your hazard lights on, so the tow truck isn't going to miss you if that's what you're worried about"

"Yeah," she admitted, "Am I going to get in trouble? I didn't even know you couldn't stand outside your car if it had a flat?"

"It's not that you can't. It's just that you really shouldn't. Anyone passing by could stop," he cut himself short before continuing. He realized he didn't need to go into details to make his point.

"Oh," she said, "Like a pedo or a killer or something?"

He knew he flinched at the words, but he at least hoped she didn't take notice. He nodded looking away at the road, back to his car and back to her.

"How long did Triple A say it would be?"

"About fifteen or twenty minutes," she replied, "I hope they hurry up too. I don't want to be late home and then have to explain it to my parents. They'll probably take away the car or something."

"You live at home with your parents? How old are you?"

"Almost 18, my birthday's in a few weeks. They act like I'm a total idiot and can't take care of anything. So, I'm sure if they find out I had a flat they'd find some way for it to be my fault not taking care of my car or something. It's ridiculous."

He felt torn. He'd just imagined this going so much more simply. He'd come over and explain to the girl she needed to wait in the car instead of outside with headphones while texting at the speed of light completely unaware of her surroundings. She'd get in the car and he'd go back to his and that would be it. Now he had a 17 year-old girl with a family at home waiting for her and AAA coming to fix a flat maybe within the next hour.

"Maybe you should call home anyway. Triple A can still come fix the flat and you'll score some points with your parents for keeping them in the loop and calling to get it taken care of without them?"

She huffed and rolled her eyes. He wanted to do the same.

"Then they're going to find out,"

"Hey, they're going to find out anyway. Triple A is going to put on a donut and I promise you, that is definitely something they will notice in the morning,"

She looked like she had a curse on the tip of her tongue, but she frowned and took a breath. Prophet was suddenly relieved that he and Ava never had children. He would have gone crazy trying to deal with a teenager of his own if this is how it felt to deal with one just in passing.

"Great," she moped, pulling the headphone wire from where it was plugged into her phone. "I hope you're right about scoring points with them. This is going to suck,"

He wanted to tell her that it was certainly better than being abducted from the side of the road or even taken advantage of by some subcontracted mechanic and tow service come to fix her flat tire. He knew that his job and his whole life for that matter had given him a pessimistic world view and a paranoia that only law enforcement officers seemed to know. At this point after struggling for days with hardly any sleep to get into the mind of a serial spree killer and simultaneously worrying about his wife getting repeat phone calls from a clearly unstable hospital chaplain, it seemed ridiculous to have to goad this girl into calling home about a flat tire. Of course, the difference was he knew what was out there and at least for now, this girl had no idea.

She dropped her arm back to her side still holding the phone after ending her short call.

"My dad's going to come out and wait with me. He says the tow company would try to bamboozle me and tow the car and charge us an arm and a leg."

"I'll wait with you until he gets here."

"Believe me, you really don't have to." She said nervously.

He half smiled and leaned back against the bumper of the car and folded his arms.

"I won't throw you under the bus with your dad. I'd just feel better not leaving you to wait again,"

"My dad is going to freak out if I'm standing here by the side of the road with an FBI agent. Do you know how not good that is going to look? It's like getting pulled over by the police, but worse,"

"Alright," he conceded, trying to think how it would look to the father and the irreparable damage the embarrassment would cause to a teenage girl to be babysat by a Special Agent over a lousy flat tire. "Get in your car and lock your doors. What's your dad drive?"

"A Nissan Maxima, it's silver." She said, relief washing over her.

"I'll go back to my car and when he pulls up I'll take off."

She sighed with relief, a huge dramatic gust of breath in fact.

"Thank you so much! Seriously, he would never let me live this down,"

"Yeah, yeah," he brushed off the thanks, "Next time you're in a situation like this, just -"

"Stay in the car to avoid the creepers, I got it," she finished.

He shook his head with a low grunt of laughter and started back toward his car, shoving his hands down into his pockets to fish for his car keys. He heard the car door open behind him and slam shut and the click of automatic locks going into place. He looked over his shoulder and the girl had the phone raised back to her face, turned sideways, clearly in a rush to report the latest few minutes of her life to her friends. It would probably make for a pretty good story. He hoped she'd heed the warning he'd given her in the future.

Prophet unlocked the car and slid back into the seat. He started the engine and turned the radio up so he could hear the music. He reached for his phone and saw he had a text message from Mick, something about the sad state of affairs in the country when he had to pull into a national chain supermarket to find his favorite brand of ale rather than an actual beer store. Prophet ignored the message and looked back up to the rearview mirror waiting to see a silver Nissan Maxima and be on his way. He looked back at the phone and picked it up shooting Mick back a message about being a priss and added he was contributing to the fall of mankind by supporting a mega chain supermarket.

He looked back up as a silver car passed him coming from the opposite direction. He looked up in the mirror and saw the brake lights illuminate as the car slowed. It pulled to the shoulder and made a lazy U turn to arrive behind the girl's car. He saw her arm from the window waving. He was sure her father thought the wave was for him, but he knew better and put his car in drive.

He pulled back onto the road and switched on his headlights. His phone beeped as a signal for a text message received. He lifted the phone and glanced at the message, another from Mick. He smirked at the playful jab he'd received for calling the Brit a priss. He'd let Rawson have the proverbial last word. He finally had actual music rather than commercials to listen to as he completed the drive home. So he turned up the radio volume a little louder and tried to relax and enjoy the drive to the sounds of REO Speedwagon sing about _Rollin with the Changes_. He'd grown up with this band and never lost love for them even if they were pretty sappy. When he'd married Ava their first dance had been to something else, probably Journey or some Poison power ballad, but the one he remembered had been to REO Speedwagon.

When the song changed to Foreigner he reached the stoplight where he'd need to make a left. A car sat waiting in the left turn lane with the blinker on. He slowed as he approached and recognized by the plates that it was Mick. The light turned green with an arrow and he followed Mick's car to the garage. Mick seemed to be in no hurry as he slowly meandered into one of the visitors' spaces clearly marked by yellow lettering on the pavement. Prophet drove ahead and pulled into his marked space.

Prophet killed the engine and got out of the car, shutting the door behind him and locking with the remote on the keys. He was striding to Mick's car purposefully when he realized he'd left his bag in the car. He considered going back for it, but he was halfway to Mick and that meant almost home. He decided to go back for it in the morning. He knew he wouldn't do laundry at that hour anyway.

"Aye, Grandpa." Mick called, "I know you need a walker, but your car, too?"

Prophet smirked at his teammate and shook his head. "Man, I stopped to do a good deed."

"Sure, sure. I see you forgot your bag. Forget where you lived too?"

Prophet shrugged and shook his head. "Not from old age, man. I wish I had some time off coming."

"Yeah, what's that cheesy line Coop always gives us? _Evil never sleeps_."

"Speaking of sleep," Prophet replied, stretching his arms as he closed the space between him and Mick who stood waiting for him at the garage exit.

"Surprise, grandpa needs a nap," Mick teased.

"I need a shower and a beer and maybe 12 hours."

"You won't nod off until beer three. I know you,"

The two walked to the entry door and Prophet twisted the key in the lock, opening the door. Mick caught it and let Prophet enter first. He shut the door behind him, twisting the handle to make sure it had locked, apparently on reflex. They walked to the elevator, Prophet hit the button with the arrow pointing up and the doors slid open. They stepped in and Prophet looked at the plastic bag that Mick now cradled in his arms.

"Protective of your beer there,"

"Ale," Mick corrected smiling.

They reached their floor, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. They stepped out and Prophet paused pocketing his set of keys. Mick's brow furrowed and then he looked past Prophet to the front door of his loft. Mick slowly put down the bag with the beer trying to conceal the noise that the thin plastic of the bag made when rustled. Prophet had already drawn his weapon and Mick followed suit, stepping in line behind Prophet who led him to the door left wide open.

Without a word, Prophet turned to Mick and they exchanged a glance. Mick gave one final look behind and to both sides and followed Prophet through the door.

Prophet's heart had started to pound the moment he'd seen the open door. He wanted to call out, but he knew better. He didn't want to give anyone inside the advantage of knowing he was there. Any weariness he'd felt had been absorbed by the rush of adrenaline and worry. The living room looked as he'd remembered it. Nothing seemed to be out of place. The floor lamp turned on beside the couch bathing the room in dim light. He saw Ava's cell phone discarded on the couch cushion. The TV was still on some Discovery Channel nature show playing with a male Australian voice narrating. He swallowed and looked over the kitchen, nothing out of place, dishes in the sink and the light on.

He kept walking, creeping toward the edge of the room where a hall led to their bedroom and bathroom along with the separate laundry room and the office at the end of the hall. Mick stopped behind him and he nodded his head for Mick to check the bathroom and he'd check the bedroom. Mick moved forward alongside him and together they stepped into the separate rooms.

Prophet stepped through the open door and into the room. He looked for a sudden movement, but found none. He cleared the space behind the door and then the long black out curtains to block light from coming in the huge window. He swallowed and edged to the closet door. He took a breath, closed his eyes, let out the breath through his nose and feeling centered he twisted the door knob and yanked open the door. He found nothing. He turned and stepped carefully back to the doorway to avoid disturbing anything on his way. He heard Mick's footsteps in the hall and he peered around the corner before stepping out.

Mick had the doorknob to the laundry room in his hand. He nodded back at the door to the office. Prophet stepped carefully with his weapon pointed down and moved behind Mick to the office. They both pushed open the respective doors and stepped inside. Prophet did a cursory once over of the office. It was minimalistic in décor and had a nook in the wall for a closet with no door to enclose the bookcases they wedged into the nook.

"Clear," Prophet called out to Mick, and lowered his gun.

"Fuck," he cursed quietly, "Fuck,"

"All clear," Mick called in return stepping from the laundry room and into the office where Prophet stood.

"Do you think she went somewhere?"

"No," Prophet replied deadpan, "She wouldn't leave the door unlocked much less open. Her phone's on the couch. She wouldn't go anywhere without that either. She knew we were on the way. I called her from the car,"

"Anything missing?" Mick asked.

Prophet glanced around the office. Everything looked intact. No drawers on the desk pulled open. No file cabinets looked to be disturbed. He walked past Mick and out of the office down the short hall and into the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway and sighed heavily.

"Bed side table is dumped. She went for her gun."

Mick was at his heels and looked over his shoulder into the room. He could hear Mick audibly swallow. Prophet holstered his weapon and put a hand to the door jamb. He rested his forehead against the back of his hand and tried to breathe calmly.

"The gun's on the floor."

"With the goddamn trigger lock that I told her not to–" Prophet snapped, stopping himself and going quiet.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Mick gave it a squeeze and a pat.

"I'll call Coop,"

"I'm going outside. I just talked to her. Maybe she's not far,"

Prophet pulled away from Mick and charged through the living room to the front door. Mick took his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Cooper, following after Prophet.


	3. Chapter 3

I dreamt I had a headache. I didn't know I was dreaming at the time, but in my dream I was running. I started in the bedroom of my house, the old house where I lived with Jonathan in California. I tried to run, but my legs moved as slow as honey dripping from a spoon. The whole world seemed to move in slow motion. Over and over I concentrated as I tried to run; tried to will the pace to speed up. I knew it felt like too much time had passed while I moved down the hallway. My arms would not even swing quickly. That felt like trying to dash at the bottom of an Olympic swimming pool. I felt my head pounding and the throb fell in step with the slow pound of my feet. Every step was another thud across my temples.

I realized I was dreaming and considered the finer points of waking up. Then my own stubborn will prevailed and it seemed so much more important despite the weight and sloth of my limbs and the pounding headache to finish what I had started. So, I continued to press forward, now at the end of the hallway. I could see in perfect crisp detail the pastel yellow walls – what a cheery hue – and the white trim of the baseboards and chair rail. We hung our pictures on the walls of that hallway, a wedding photo, family and friends, and some art – pretentious photographs we took of sunsets or the beach and thought decorative.

I crossed the threshold from the hallway into the day room, full of windows, bright and sunny. We had no curtains, now. The room had no furniture, just white walls. It had not looked that way except for the short time just after we bought the house before we decorated, painted and furnished it. The sunlight hurt my eyes. The headache spiked behind them. In my dream I yelled out.

I woke up groaning and moved to cover my closed eyes. My arms wouldn't work the way I wanted them to. The headache remained with me, pulsing behind my brow. I wanted to massage my temples or the bridge of my nose. I suddenly became aware of the reason that I couldn't move my hands to my face to cover my eyes and now to comfort against the ache in my head. My wrists pinched where something bound them tightly together behind my back.

My eyes blinked from shut to wide open and my chest tightened as my pulse sped up. I looked around and first thought _I don't know where I am._ My second thought centered on what surrounded me as I desperately tried to place the location.

My cheek was against a bare cement floor, warm from my skin and body heat. I tilted my head and glanced around. The room was large, with four walls, utilitarian design, no closets, and no interior walls to compartmentalize the space. I twisted to look to my left and then my right. These walls were brick, just as the wall in front of me – far in front of me.

I tried to twist my head and look behind. It was hard to move from lying almost face down to roll over. My legs felt stiff and when I tried to pull my knees in, I found my ankles bound as well. I wiggled my toes and tried to separately move my feet. I realized my feet were bare and my pulse sped up with a surge of adrenaline. I'd been looking around the room, trying to place my unfamiliar surroundings – my wrists were bound as well as my ankles and I had no shoes. It came back in one horrible wave. I'd been conscious less than a minute, but my first thought had not been what had happened – what had just happened.

I'm not proud of it, but I began to panic. My shallow breaths became deeper gasps. I licked my lips, if only to make sure my mouth hadn't been gagged or taped shut. I found freedom, but didn't yell. I swallowed and shut my eyes, briefly. I opened them and saw the same walls, the door, the metal chairs, and light fixtures hanging from the ceiling – rectangular fluorescent lighting.

I remembered why I had no shoes and a chill ran down from my head to feet. I squirmed and tried harder to roll over, but I'd been lying on my right hip for who knows how long. My right leg tingled as I toppled backward. My left arm brushed against the wall behind me. The room didn't seem as big now that I learned I was lying on the cement floor against one wall.

My eyes began to well up with tears. I shut them and pursed my lips, breathing through my nose, forcing my breaths to come deep and slow. I tried to stop the adrenaline from pumping and tried to bring everything back down – pulse, blood pressure, respiration. I knew that I couldn't sustain this fight or flight response for long without exhausting myself and being in an adrenaline haze would only help me if I had the ability to run or battle. I had neither with wrists bound, now flat on my back and my ankles tied, along with my knees I now discovered. I'd been incapacitated almost completely.

"Fuck," I cursed in a whisper, breaking the imperative to keep my mouth shut while breathing through my nose.

My mind responded to the adrenaline and started to kick into overdrive. The thoughts flew quickly and I barely knew where they originated from; they came in so many voices. I fell back on my professional ability to compartmentalize in the midst of a crisis. My profession had at least bestowed me with that ability. When the adrenaline rush hit I'd start to distance from the situation and look at it as objectively as possible. As I lay on the cold cement, my weight bearing down against my arms causing them to ache at the shoulder, I tried to think my way out of the room by mapping it first. Fight or flight came in so many forms.

In my mind I could hear Jonathan's voice, repeating over and over the same phrase. _Stay calm_ he said. I tried my best to listen, but only succeeded in repeating the words over and over in his voice.

I looked around me. I had a better vantage lying on my back than I did on my side. The ceiling had rows of fixtures hanging from metal chains rather than fixed to the ceiling. The ceiling looked like wood on top of metal framework or scaffolding, not a paneled ceiling like in a residence. The lights were in predictable rows, symmetrical across the entire ceiling. They would have provided a good deal of light if they were switched on, but they were not.

I twisted and shifted from side to side. With the momentum I rolled back onto my right side. Though, a better vantage point for observing my surroundings, lying on my back also meant my weight on my arms bound behind me. The pain in my shoulders diffused as soon as I'd rolled back to half on my side and half on my front.

I focused on the wall ahead of me. It had two windows that may have once opened, but had been obscured by layers of dust, dirt and neglect. They were square, maybe 6 feet by 6 feet, and composed of smaller square panels, four rows and four columns. Our loft had a similar window in the bedroom, but we'd covered it with blackout curtains despite its retro flare.

The wall to the left had no windows, but did have a door. It looked like a hard wood door, carved from one large plank rather than made of a composite. Instead of a knob it had a metal handle and a deadbolt, with a key lock rather than a twist button. I had no way to tell if it had been locked from where I lay. I also had no way of striding to the door and pulling it off the hinges if it had been locked.

I focused on the windows on the wall ahead of me and the wall to my right which also had a 6 by 6 window constructed the same way as the other. I considered what it would take to get to the window, how to right myself enough to reach the bottom of the window in order to look out, and how to clear the dust away in order to look out. Considering if I rolled my body over and over to get to one of the windows I'd then have to find a way to sit up and then hope that the window wasn't set high enough that sitting up I'd be too short to see out of even the bottom window panels. Suppose I would be tall enough sitting to look out the window, would I be able to with the dirt, and if not, could I rub it with my face or hair to clean it? Then, what would I do? I had no idea what area I was in and if anyone would be able to see me if I clean the window or hear me if I tried to scream through it. The panels would tilt out on the bottom row of the window, but not just by sheer force. There would be a locking mechanism and possibly a crank if they weren't pull handle operated. I had to assume that without them open there would be no help to be brought by screaming or I would have been gagged. I couldn't trust that opening the window would improve my chances.

I sighed and shut my eyes. I tried to control my breathing which had begun to again speed up. My headache still pounded, but it had become the least of my worries. When I shut my eyes it came back to the forefront, no longer having to vie against external stimuli for my attention. I opened my eyes and looked to the windows. Faint light came through the window to my right, but nothing from the window ahead of me. I assumed a streetlight brought the light in through one window but not the other. It seemed to still be night. I realized I had no concept of how much time had passed since being attacked in my own home.

It had happened too fast for me to stop it. Jonathan had called my cell phone. He'd told me he was on his way home and Mick would be following along. He'd just asked if I needed anything at the store and to give me a heads up about Mick. I'd hung up and gone from the couch to the kitchen. I'd been on my way to take inventory of the selection of snack foods in the freezer. I thought I had some hot wings to make since Mick was joining Jonathan to blow off steam and have a celebratory beer after finishing a case.

Then, there was a knock on the door. I turned from the kitchen and walked to the front door. I remember thinking that Mick had outrun Jonathan and made it first. It never occurred to me to wonder how he'd gotten past the first locked door of our building. I expected company to arrive and so I'd gone to the door, unlocked and opened it. I'd been smiling with a witty saying on the tip of my tongue to greet my husband's partner – ex-husband, whatever. Then, it just went wrong. Instead of the tall wiry sniper I'd expected, I found the shorter, stockier and uninvited man.

Something about the look on Daniel's face made me uneasy. I said nothing and immediately thrust the door forward still holding onto the door knob with my right hand. I brought around my left and put my weight behind the door. I felt the knob turning as the door burst back against me. It knocked me off my feet backward and I narrowly missed striking the arm of the couch with my head when I tumbled.

He was inside and I considered the door a loss and conceded the front room to him. I rolled from my back to my knees, struggled from there to standing and made a dash out of the room. I know I didn't scream. It's the one thing I am so sure of, because I remember thinking I should yell and make noise for the neighbors to possibly hear if they were home. In the end, I didn't think I had time and I hadn't the sense to multitask.

It happened in seconds and I had no idea if Daniel were on my heels or trailing behind, like an annoying slasher film antihero. I slammed the bedroom door behind me and leaned back against it. I gasped for a breath and looked around the room. I had my choice – abandon the door or try to hold it until help arrived. I only had to make it ten minutes. I felt relieved when I recounted the phone conversation. I could use the landline to call 911. The phone was beside the bed in the cordless cradle. I could get my gun from the table beside my bed. Jonathan kept his there, but his was holstered. He had backup in a small electronic keypad monitored gun safe tucked away on the floor of his side of our closet. I swallowed and the door banged behind me. I put my arms out to brace my body against it. I cursed myself for not throwing something over behind the door. I could have gone for the dresser, the mattress, something. I had so many wasted seconds preparing my options in my head. I reached up to the wall and felt for the light switch. The ceiling fan and track lights in the large bedroom came on. I tried to catch my breath. The door banged again and I tipped forward slightly. He'd surely bang the door down throwing his weight against it.

I listened. I could hear his voice behind the door. I numbly realized he'd been talking the whole time. I'd tuned out. I'd dropped out and tuned out.

"Go away. Just leave me alone and go away." I yelled over my shoulder at the door.

And another hit came. I counted silently in my head, waiting for the next hit. It almost knocked me forward off balance. I let go of the door and stumbled forward. I wrenched the drawer from the table beside my side of the bed. The contents poured out. I wish I'd opened the drawer more calmly, but I couldn't. I couldn't even make all my senses work together. Another hit to the door. I grabbed for the revolver that had been dumped. I reached for the trigger lock and my fingers fumbled around it clumsily. It had just been so much easier to take off when my hands weren't shaking and my brain could transmit the message to my fingers to do what I envisioned necessary in my head.

"You couldn't just talk to me! YOU HAD TO BE LIKE THIS!" he shouted, in the room, behind me.

I realized what I needed to discard the lock and free the weapon was a tiny key. I looked down and saw the key at my feet. I felt an arm circle my waist. I saw as if in slow motion from my peripheral vision his other hand coming around toward my face. His hand clamped over my mouth, my nose; I felt his fingertips dig into my cheek. I gasped and gulped for a breath – a reflex; then the smell that I couldn't quite place but somehow knew in that instant based on instinct alone.

The gun fell from my hand. I felt the weight of the metal and polymers strike my left foot just above the big toe. I tried to bend to grab for it, for the keys, to put them together and to do what I had to do to protect myself.

I remember the gun and the little red lock that had come with it. I remember reading the safety pamphlet aloud on the drive home. It encompassed just an index card worth folded over into a brochure to show how to lock and unlock the mechanism. I'd said how cute it looked and compact. It would be so much easier to store the gun that way instead of in the electronic key pad gun safe. I could keep it in the bedside table that way. Jonathan had lectured how idiotic a concept. I insisted that it would be safer there than the closet. He insisted he'd keep his weapon loaded and ready secured beneath his table at night by Velcro and be far safer. I brought up that sometimes I watched my friend's kids and couldn't eyeball them every second. I didn't usually carry in a holster outside of sleep. He finally relented and told me in that certain situation it would be safer – available but still disarmed for curious children poking around while I took a bathroom break.

Reaching for the gun, feeling the pain in my foot that would most certainly bruise and trying to focus blurring cloudy vision on that tiny set of keys to fit in the ever so tiny lock, I blinked. I tried to blink away black dots. I could taste bitter chemical against my lips that parted to try to take in air. Then I remember dreaming. In my dream I was running, but so slow and through the old house, not the loft.


End file.
